Hart of Empire (2010) Read online

  'Which regiment?' asked a burly trooper to George's right.

  'And where is your weapon?' asked another.

  'I . . .'

  The rissaldar touched George's chest with the point of his sword. 'Uncover your face, brother, so we can see you.'

  George lifted his left hand to the knot at the side of his face, and with his right drew his pistol from its hidden holster. He shot the rissaldar in the neck, the bang causing the other horses to rear and shy. Before the riders could regain control, George had hauled the wounded officer from his horse, grabbed his sword and vaulted into his saddle. He rode towards the house. 'Ilderim!' he shouted. 'Where are you?'

  'I'm here, huzoor,' replied Ilderim, firing his rifle from behind the mulberry tree. George turned to see another saddle empty, but the other four riders were bearing down on him, swords outstretched. He shot one and ducked as the second rider made a wild cut at his head that missed by inches. As the Afghan passed, George looked up to see the last two riders just feet away, their eyes wild and their teeth bared, as they looked to avenge their comrades. He fired at the nearest and missed, cursing himself for not aiming at the horse, and was just in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his chest. The two horses closed and George fought desperately to defend himself from a flurry of thrusts and slashes, one of which sliced through the top of his hand and forced him to drop his sword. From the corner of his eye he saw the last rider's tulwar arcing down towards his head. He tried to sway out of range but, hemmed in by the other horse, there was no room for manoeuvre. With the blade just inches away, the rider reared in his saddle and dropped his sword. Ilderim had shot him.

  Aware now of the threat from the hidden rifleman, the last two riders disengaged and galloped off down the road, leaving George nursing an injured right hand, which he bandaged with his handkerchief. 'Is it bad, huzoor?' asked Ilderim, as he emerged from behind the tree.

  'It's not good,' said George, wincing as he tried and failed to flex his fingers, 'but I don't think I'd have a head on my shoulders if you hadn't shot that swordsman. That's twice you've saved me today.'

  'If you want to thank me, huzoor,' said Ilderim, with a grin, 'you can always increase my pay.'

  George shook his head, laughing. 'Typical Afghan. Now get up behind me. Yakub's palace isn't far and there may still be time to save the others.'

  The royal palace was off the next lane. As they approached the towering gatehouse, a burly guard in chain mail stepped into their path with palm outstretched. 'No one enters on the amir's orders.'

  'Tell the amir,' said George, 'that I must speak to him on a matter of the utmost importance.' His explanation was deliberately oblique because he did not know how sympathetic the royal guards were to the mutineers' cause.

  'And you are?'

  'Abdulla Khan, Malik of Khajuri.' George had said the first thing that came into his head, and the guard did not look convinced.

  'Wait here,' he said, and disappeared through a wicket-door to the left of the two wooden gates.

  'A bad idea to say you're my father,' whispered Ilderim. 'He's an old man.'

  'The guard won't know that.'

  Five tense minutes later, the guard returned with his officer, similarly dressed but wearing a sword. 'I'm Walidad Khan, Commander of the Palace Guard. What is your business with the amir?'

  'I have news of the fight at the Residency.'

  'What news? Do the Feringhees hold out still?'

  'Yes, as you can hear,' said George, gesturing towards the sound of gunfire. 'But the end is close and it might profit the amir to stop the slaughter.'

  Walidad Khan scowled. 'Why should he? The infidels should not have come, and deserve their fate. But I will tell him you are here. Leave your horse and come with me.'

  They dismounted and followed the guard commander through the wicket-gate and past more sentries into an enchanted garden of fountains, shaded pavilions, fruit trees and octagonal parterres of sweet-smelling flowers. At the far end of the garden lay the palace itself, a three-storey building similar in design to Cavagnari's Residency, but much bigger. It, too, had covered arcades with lattice-work balconies on every floor, and two wings that jutted out from the main building to form a central courtyard.

  More sentries, armed with long spears, barred the entrance. But on seeing the commander of the guard they stood aside. George and Ilderim were led through the hall and up a staircase to the two interconnecting durbar rooms. On the floors were spread thick Persian carpets, bolsters and the thin mattresses known in the East as rezais, while gaudy glass chandeliers hung from the ceilings. The walls were covered with cheap prints in elaborate frames, including one of Tsar Alexander III of Russia, and a copy of the Graphic newspaper lay on a British-made chair. 'Wait here,' said Walidad Khan.

  Ten minutes passed and no one came. 'Where the devil is he?' asked George. 'The Residency is being destroyed a few hundred yards away and he behaves as if it's a normal day. I'm damned if I'll wait here doing nothing.' George turned for the door but was stopped in his tracks by a man entering the room ahead of Walidad Khan. He was of middle height, in his early thirties, with a conical-shaped head, slightly receding black hair, and a weak chin that was only partially obscured by his beard. He was wearing what appeared to be a white ceremonial uniform with gold stripes on the trousers, gold epaulettes and a profusion of gold lace.

  'I'm Yakub Khan, Amir of Kabul. Who are you and what news do you have of the resident?'

  'Thank you for receiving me, Your Highness,' said George, removing the piece of turban from his face. 'I'm James Harper, a British trader, and I've just come from the Residency.'

  Yakub looked stunned. 'A British trader? How did you escape?'

  'In disguise, as you see. Your Highness, you must send troops to stop the slaughter. Cavagnari is dead and the others soon will be unless you act now.'

  'Cavagnari dead!' said Yakub, putting his head into his hands. 'Those foolish soldiers have no idea what they've done.'

  'It's not over yet, Your Highness. If you act now you can save the others. Did you not receive the messages we sent earlier?'

  'I received them, Mr Harper, which is why I sent Daoud Shah, my commander-in-chief, to talk to the mutineers and try to return them to their duty.'

  'But he failed, Your Highness. His own soldiers set upon him like wolves. Are you aware of that?'

  'How could I not be? He was brought back to the palace, badly injured, by some soldiers who took pity on him. It was then that I sent my uncle Sirdar Yahia Khan and my son to appeal for order, and later some well-known mullahs. But all to no avail.'

  'Why did you not order your own guards to intervene?'

  'My dear Mr Harper, I don't think you understand the difficulty of my position. I have only one regiment I can rely on, the Kuzzelbashes, the descendants of Persian warriors who conquered Kabul in the last century. They are a thousand strong, but the mutineers number many thousands. If I send the Kuzzelbashes to intervene, they will be destroyed and I with them.'

  'You don't know that for certain, Your Highness. It's a risk, I know, but it's one you have to take. Simla will never forgive you if you don't even try to save the garrison.'

  'This is not my fault,' he said, in an anguished tone. 'I was forced to sign that accursed treaty, or you British would never have withdrawn your troops. Yet my people can't forgive me for allowing a British resident and his escort to reside in Kabul. And now I'm caught between the two. What should I do?'

  George despised irresolution and knew that every minute Yakub prevaricated was costing another life. Yet he also felt that the amir's predicament was genuine, and that he needed to be cajoled rather than bullied. 'I appreciate it's hard for you to ask your men to fight other Afghans, Your Highness, but you personally guaranteed the safety of the British mission. You must do something to help.'

  'How can I? Daoud Shah told me that it's not only mutineers who are attacking the Residency but ordinary civilians too. Should I order the Kuzzelbashes to f
ire on my own people?'

  'You must. Who would you rather make an enemy of - the rabble from the bazaar or the British?'

  'The rabble, of course, but it's not as simple as that.'

  'It is. As soon as the Indian government hears about this attack it will despatch troops to punish those responsible. When that happens, your only hope of keeping your throne is by convincing the British that you did all you could to save the garrison.'

  Yakub sighed. 'Very well. I'll send my men. Much good it will do. Walidad Khan!'

  The guard commander appeared. 'Highness?'

  'Form up the Kuzzelbashes and lead them at once to the Residency. I want you to put a stop to the fighting. How you do that is up to you.'

  'Is that wise, Highness? The mutineers are many and we are few. And the firing seems to be lessening. It might be at an end by the time we get there.'

  'All the more reason to make haste.'

  'Yes, Highness,' said Walidad Khan, saluting. He glared at George as he left the room.

  Minutes later he was back.

  'I gave you an order,' said Yakub.

  'I was about to carry it out, Highness, but then all firing ceased and I received a message from a lookout on the roof that the Residency had fallen.'

  George's heart sank. 'Are you certain of this?' he asked Walidad Khan.

  'Yes, sahib. I went up to the roof to see for myself.'

  George turned to Yakub. 'If you'd only acted earlier you might have saved them.'

  'I am not to blame,' said Yakub, angrily. 'Did I put those faithless soldiers up to this? No. But I vow to you now that those responsible will suffer.'

  'That will be of little consolation to Hamilton and the others,' said George. He turned to Walidad Khan. 'Is there any hope of survivors?'

  'No, sahib, the buildings are all on fire.'

  'Can you show me?'

  The commander looked at the amir and received a nod of assent. 'This way, sahib.'

  Up on the palace roof, with the sun low in the sky and the light beginning to fade, they could see great plumes of smoke rising from the Residency compound, which was barely a quarter of a mile away. The Mess House was little more than a charred ruin, but the other two buildings were burning fiercely, a sign that the defenders hadn't been long overcome. Both inside and outside the compound a huge crowd was celebrating its victory by chanting and firing rifles into the air. 'Those poor souls,' said George. 'It doesn't look as if they managed to get the cannon back to the barracks.'

  'No, huzoor,' said Ilderim. 'I can see it by the entrance, where we left it.'

  George looked in that direction, but it was too far to make out any detail. 'What else can you see?'

  'Some mutinous dogs near the gun. They're cutting at something with their knives.'

  'Is it a body?'

  'Maybe so, huzoor. They've put it on a spear and are holding it up for the crowd to see.'

  The mutineers' chanting grew louder. George felt sick. 'Can you see what it is?' he asked, though he knew the answer.

  'It's a man's head, huzoor, but there's no beard. It must be Hamilton Sahib's.'

  George turned and vomited.

  Chapter 9

  Royal Palace, Bala Hissar, Kabul

  George woke with a start, his heart thumping and his body bathed in sweat. He blinked his eyes open, desperate to erase the nightmarish image of Hamilton's headless body lying by the abandoned gun, but it was still dark. He groped for matches and lit the oil lamp by the bed. Slowly his breathing returned to normal.

  As he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, he agonized over his next move. He was tempted to use the murder of Cavagnari and the others as an excuse not to continue with his mission now that an uprising had taken place and a new British invasion was inevitable. Yet he also knew that the rising, thus far, was only in Kabul and that the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam could still use the Prophet's Cloak to spread the flame of jihad across the country. His mission, therefore, was still very much alive. Yet Pir Ali's death in the Residency had cost him not only his main contact in Afghanistan, but all hope of discovering the whereabouts of the cloak. All he knew for certain was that it had been moved from its shrine in Kandahar by either Cavagnari's agents, or those of the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam, and was probably bound for the mullah's home town of Ghazni. He and Ilderim would go there next, he decided, but first he had to recover from his wound and let the tumult in Kabul die down a little. As things stood, no European in Afghanistan was safe.

  Resolved as to his future course of action, George blew out the lamp and fell asleep. He was woken at dawn by a servant. 'Sahib, His Highness would like to speak with you in the durbar rooms.'

  'This very minute?'

  'Yes, sahib, it's a matter of some urgency.'

  George dressed and made his way downstairs to the first of the durbar rooms where he found the amir, dressed informally in a dark blue kurta and white pyjama trousers, reclining on a cushion and eating an apricot. A large bowl of fruit lay at his elbow. 'Ah, Mr Harper, do take a seat,' said Yakub, wiping juice from his chin with a sleeve. 'Did you know we Afghans produce the finest apricots in the world, to say nothing of our pomegranates, peaches, grapes and plums, or that our dried fruit and nuts, particularly walnuts, are our chief exports and are prized all over India?'

  'I did know that, Your Highness,' said George.

  'Would you like to try one?'

  'Not just now. I prefer savoury food in the morning.'

  Yakub chuckled. 'You never did explain how you and your Afghan guide came to be at the Residency yesterday. How long have you been in Afghanistan?'

  'Not long,' said George, as he sat down. He paused, wondering whether it was worth continuing with his cover story, then decided that he would have more influence over the amir if he came clean and admitted his links to the British government. 'I didn't tell you the truth yesterday, Your Highness. I'm not a trader. My real name is Captain George Hart and I was sent to Afghanistan by the Foreign Office to keep an eye on the resident.'

  'To spy on your own side? Why was that necessary?'

  'Because, Your Highness, there are those in the Indian government who think that the only sure way to stop a Russian invasion of India is by annexing all or part of Afghanistan. Lord Lytton is of this mind, as was Sir Louis Cavagnari. The British government, on the other hand, is anxious to avoid the expense and loss of life that would result from a renewed war, which was why they sent me to try to prevent another conflict.'

  'You don't think, Captain, that the resident had anything to do with yesterday's riot?'

  'Not directly, Your Highness, but once the fire had begun he made little attempt to put out the flames. He could have agreed to the mutineers' demands and paid their arrears but he chose not to, almost as if he welcomed a crisis that he hoped would provoke an armed British response.'

  Yakub shook his head. 'Sir Louis always professed himself a friend of the Afghans. I had no idea that he was really a serpent in the bosom. But it seems, Captain, that you and I want the same thing - to prevent the rebellion spreading and the need for another British invasion. To that end I wish to ask your advice. Last evening I sent a letter explaining yesterday's unfortunate events to your superior General Roberts, who commands the British garrison at Ali Khel in the Kurram valley, just eighty miles from Kabul. In it I detailed the unprovoked attack on the Residency by the troops, the people from Sherpur and the country around the Bala Hissar, and the city people of all classes. I also mentioned the attempts I had made to stop the fighting by sending Daoud Shah to speak to the rebels. This morning I have written a second letter that I would like you to read.'

  George scanned the proffered sheet of paper. After half a page of flowery compliments, it came to the point:

  Yesterday, from 8 a.m. till evening, thousands assembled to destroy the Residency. There has been much loss of life on both sides. At evening they set fire to the Residency. All yesterday and up till now, I and five attendants have been besieged. I have no certain new
s of the resident, whether he and his people have been killed in their quarters, or been seized and brought out. Afghanistan is ruined; the troops, city and surrounding country have thrown off their yoke of allegiance. Daoud Shah is not expected to recover; all his attendants were killed. The workshops and the magazine are in cinders - in fact, my kingdom is ruined. After God, I look to the government for aid and purpose. My true friendship and honesty of purpose will be proved as clear as daylight. By this misfortune I have lost my friend, the resident, and also my kingdom. I am grieved and perplexed.

  'So tell me, Captain Hart,' said the amir, as George looked up from the page. 'Will it do?'

  'Well, that depends on what you're trying to achieve, Your Highness. If you seek to reassure the Indian government that you're as much a victim as the defenders of the Residency, that you're still a friend of the Indian government and that you look to the British for assistance, your letter will serve admirably.'

  'Thank you. That is exactly how my advisers and I were hoping it would be read.'

  'But,' added George, 'I don't think you've been entirely honest in it. I know for certain that the resident is dead, and the others almost certainly are. As for your point about being besieged, you and I both know that's not true. I accept you were in a very difficult position but at no stage was the palace sealed off by the rebels. Your decision not to send your guard to intervene until it was too late was because you feared such an action would be counterproductive, not because it was a physical impossibility.'

  The amir sighed. 'My friend, let's not quibble over minor details. As you are aware, I am in a delicate situation. I need the help of you British to restore my authority - particularly here in Kabul where I hear reports that my treacherous uncle Nek Mahomed Khan has usurped the government - yet I can't be seen as your lapdog. So please allow me to . . . how do you say it? Gild the lily just a little. That way I satisfy the Indian government and, hopefully, also my own people.'

  George nodded. 'I take your point. I believe the Indian government was wrong to invade your country last year, and that we still haven't learnt the lesson of our previous attempt to install a pro-British ruler in Kabul.'